


love leaves exactly when love must

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut, Train Sex, au in which neither of them are actors, idk how to tag these things so have my fic that includes train love, not really real-life universe, the key word is trains and idk what i have written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1375774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Escaping on a train from the city he once called home, James thought he would be alone on the long ride to London until Michael came along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love leaves exactly when love must

_Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to,_  
 _And love leaves exactly when love must._  
 _When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”_  
 _If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her._  
 _Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper,_  
 _“Thank you for stopping by.”_

Scotland soon grew tired of James’ restless soul. The scent that hung in the air didn’t seem welcoming and so did the noise. He liked those things as a kid, but time moved forward to new habits, new sleeping patterns and new lives. And James left, like the bitter air and the snow that has begun to melt from rooftops and asphalt roads.

He only needed one grey suitcase and Whitman’s poetry to leave Glasgow and it is the latter that keeps him company in the compartment coach, anxiously waiting for the train to leave the station. James lets himself sink in the velvet seats, half-wishing that no one else would enter the compartment (although he knows that this is highly unlikely.)

Five minutes melted into probably seven or ten, and he did not take notice of the ticking watch around his wrist. Then, a soft tap on the sliding door.

A tall gentleman slid the door open slowly for politeness. He carries with him only a pale brown duffel bag in one hand and a folded dark coat on the other. James bet that if he wore his coat collars up, he’d look like Dracula with blond hair.

“May I?” he said, pointing to the seat opposite James. “Everywhere else’s full.”

“Company’s alright,” James lied, and with a soft laugh, “And it’s not my train.”

The blond (Is he Irish?) took the opposite side of the compartment, his bag taking the window seat to avoid being nearer to James as possible. With all courtesy, he let his Scottish charm get the best of him, “James. Uh- my name. It’s James. McAvoy. And yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man smiled a bit, then nodded. “Michael.. Fassbender.”

“Like the archangel?”

“Yeah. Except that I’m not an angel… or Christian.”

 _Don’t worry, I’m neither too._ Silence filled the small compartment after that, and a couple of minutes later, the train started to move. Whitman’s words blurred together as James read, and it no longer became his interest. He wanted to study the other man in the compartment, possibly starting his new life in acquainting him.

But he didn’t talk to him yet, and James decided that it will be a long ride to London.

***

It is Michael who broke the quiet when the train had left the station, “So why are you leaving home?”

“How d’you know I’m leaving?” He doesn’t sound offended, only surprised.

“Well, you’re a Scot – accent and all – leaving Scotland. So what’s the catch?”

“Family. My dad.” Michael obviously don’t know what to say, but James doesn’t want silences anymore. He will leave that in Glasgow. “But don’t worry, I don’t take it personally.”

Michael’s lip curled at the corners, and there is something different about that lip-curl that he wanted to memorize it. “But here you are, alone in a train moving fast to King’s Cross. And it’s not personal.”

“Technically, I’m not alone. I have atheist Michael with me.” he says, “And Whitman.”

“Jesus Christ, Scots are crazy.” Michael replied and laughed, shaking his head.

“So what’s your story, Michael? Your bag looks only like an excuse to ride a train.”

“Someone’s awfully sick, so I have to go London. You know, before they go.” _Oh._ James knew what _go_ meant, and Michael doesn’t have to censor normal shit for him. For God’s sake, James had enough deaths in his life that he’s now unfazed by the mere idea of it. His grandmother when he was five, his dog, his great-aunt, his half-brother Donald, and soon, after all impossibilities and promises, his beloved Anne-Marie.

“So you run after them, even though you know you won’t catch them in the end.”

“Hmm. It’s better than running away.” Michael says, and James pretended he didn’t hear him.

“Tell me a story.” James whispered, partly to no one in particular and mostly to Michael. The night is slowly closing in and there’s four hours to kill.

The Irish ( _Irish-German,_ he was confirmed a little earlier) bit his lip and chuckled. He asked blithely, “What stories do you like?”

“Anything. Sad stories. Happy stories. Hell, I’d take a story about a mushroom who falls in love with a coconut tree.”

“Is that even possible?” James only laughed. And, closing his eyes, leaned against the window, feeling the soft rattle as the train speeds on its tracks. Michael ponders for a bit and says, “I don’t know what story to tell you. I came here with my pockets empty of stories.” Michael heard James’ quiet remark of ‘Bullshit.’ “But I’ll let you invade my privacy if you want.”

This caught James’ attention, and he said, “You don’t have deep, dark secrets, do you?”

“Not that I know of. Or at least I’m not escaping from the cops because of murder.”

“Okay, what’s your favorite season?”

“Winter. And what kind of question is that?”

But James ignored his complaint, “Who’s the best ex-girlfriend you’ve ever had and share the awful story.”

Michael sighed; defeated, he seemed. “There’s this young woman named Zoe. And we fell apart, I guess.”

“Bollocks. You’re a terrible storyteller and you wouldn’t survive during the apocalypse. Christ.”

“You don’t need good storytelling for the apocalypse. Everyone’s already miserable and struggling to keep themselves alive.”

“Well, that’s why everybody need good stories. To keep themselves from being miserable so struggling to be alive won’t be hard shit.”

Michael’s eyes lit up at the shitty philosophy of the Scot. He’s interesting, in a different but not-altogether-bad way. From the duffel bag, he brought out a bottle Jack Daniel’s, which he was supposed to drink only after the hospital. But what the hell, he could live a little in a train.

“You’ll need some booze for that, my friend.” He struggles a little on uncapping the bottle and he handed it to James, who grinned at the sight of the alcohol. James told him, “If I’d believed in God too, I’d ask him to bless you.”

James kept his eyes on the Irishman as he drank his whiskey. Michael, likewise, just watched him and felt the blood rush to his cheeks at the eye contact. Now, he realized why people call it _contact_ –because people really could communicate with eyes, sometimes even with touches and laughs. James gave the booze back to Michael, who now sat beside him, sighing before he drank from the same bottle.

James’ snicker filled the heavy air of their compartment, and almost made Michael nervous. “When people drink or eat from the same bottle or spoon, I believe it’s like they’ve snogged, you know. And I barely even know you. All I know about you is that you’re religion-less, you love winter, and something about Zoe is special.”

When Michael had finished his sip, his tone changed. He’s serious when he begins to speak, “She’s the only one kind enough to pick me up when I fucked up in my life. She’s a delicate soul and we equal each other to be better people. Then, I cheated on her – fuck, I can never forgive myself for that. Biggest mistake I ever did.”

“I’m sorry.” James mumbled, almost impossible to hear at his shock. Michael shouldn’t be telling him this, because who the hell is he to him? Only a goddamn stranger in a train to London. “You need to drink more.”

“The last time I saw her, it was raining –she figured it out when she saw me with the girl in my room. Then she ran all the way to her house, didn’t even bother getting a cab. That’s two years ago.” He take the Jack Daniel’s in one long drink. Then there is a sigh from when he finished drinking half the bottle, as if somehow the alcohol had drowned the memory away. It couldn’t, he knew, but the burn in his throat sure did feel good.

“That’s a dick move.” Michael looked at James accusingly, but James continued, “But as long as you’re holding on to that, nothing will happen with your sad, pathetic life. And you’ll spend your years moping about it with every single son-of-a-bitch that you’ll spend train rides with.”

He got to laugh at James lightly, which makes him feel like everything’s alright now. “It’s just the whiskey, don’t worry.” He reassured him.

“Speaking of which, you need to give me more of it.” Michael obliged, and James is a sight while drinking. He tells Michael, “You know, I don’t really believe in God either-or religion for that matter, but jesusmaryandjoseph, alcohol could make any non-believer kiss the feet of Christ’s cross.” Michael ended up laughing at him, and it made him a little light-headed.

There is something about the air or maybe it’s just the whiskey in his throat. But he’s started to take in every detail of the Irishman. He make mental notes of him: he has blond hair, he has a light stubble (And God, how would that feel like?), thirtysomething years had aged him well like wine, he’s taller and has a voice that is pure sex. And his lips…

Fuck. “This is making me dizzy…”

And Michael agreed, “I can see that…”

And maybe there’s a change in the atmosphere or the world turned upside down or maybe a comet hit the earth but the next thing he knew Michael’s lips were slanting against his and he is pulling James against his body. They could both taste the whiskey in each other’s lips and the bottle aforementioned was forgotten and fell thankfully on the velvet seat.

James kissed him back fiercely, and he could feel like they both have to stop but that would mean more silences. And James had made himself a promise. Michael started it, and now they have no idea when or how to stop. James traced his stubble, and the tips of his fingers seemed to have felt electricity. And he moved his lips to them, memorizing the rough jawline with gentle kisses.

“James…” _Shit._ The way Michael pronounces his name is intoxicating, like promises mingled with red wine. “Don’t stop.” He had kissed men before, had even learned to make them come with only his words. But no one, not anyone else, could make him so unraveled like Michael Fassbender.

They have never been shameless, but in that moment the unlocked door and the possibility of others seeing them didn’t matter. James kissed and sucked at the skin of his neck, vowing to bruise. When he came back for his lips, Michael lightly nibbled at his lower lip, and James’ moan filled the otherwise empty air.

There is still three hours left of their trip, and afterwards their paths would part. They could fit so many things in three hours, only so many moments that could happen in the distance of their Now and London’s King’s Cross. So nothing was held back.

James set himself on Michael’s lap, their bodies are so close now that it’s making him more impatient, and he began to unbutton his shirt. His fingers were shaking badly, and Michael grinned at how clumsily he works every button – with that stupid, tempting grin of his. “Stop that,” James reprimanded, “Or else I’ll stop.”

He kissed James gently, and wished he could melt in to his lips. The smaller man had opened only the top three buttons (greatly distanced, thank God) and he kissed and sucked and bit at what skin is exposed. A thin layer of sweat lay on Michael’s skin, and James licked. Michael could feel the hard bulge between the other man’s legs, and it nearly sent him over the edge.

But in the battle of who would unbuckle the other’s belt last, it is Michael who gave up. He tossed the leather belt to the ground, and pulled down the zipper. He began by palming James first, whose breath hitched at his touch. He could have this one piece of control – despite the obvious animalistic answer to impulse they both had. James feels hard and thick on his palm, and when he adjusted the boxers and the pants, he placed one hand on his ass while the other continued teasing.

He sure did take his damn time palming him through the small layer of fabric, and he moved his hands underneath the boxers. James was breathing heavily and the sound he made is beyond goddamned divine. Michael stroke his impressive shaft, slowly and biding his time well. He would roll his thumb over the slit, over the pre-come. “I never thought I’d want you like this...”

“I never thought you’d be so fucking teasing.”

He followed what only could be his own lust, and his fingers moved faster around James. He moved faster until James’ hip buckled against his own hand. And again and again. He wanted to capture that moment, when he is taking over James in ways he never could imagine. He wanted to remember the difference between love and lust and how you could have both without sacrificing the other. And he wanted to remember how anything could fit perfectly even with people you’ve just met.

“Fu- _fuck”_ James hip had stopped and sweat clung their clothes closer to their bodies, making everything else hotter. James released into his hands, unmerciful to his pants and his shirt. He leaned his forehead unto Michael’s, his breaths sending ghost shivers on Michael’s lips.

James doesn’t know much about love, but he knew those moments in that train compartment are true.

***

The train stopped in London with tormenting finality.

Michael had washed his hands in the train bathroom after he let James taste himself on his fingers. The thought of his sinful lips wrapped around his fingers…

As for the case of his shirt and pants, he dabbed water on the fabric and there are many things that trench coats can hide.

“So this is it.” James announced when they are both on the platform. “But don’t you dare say it, I’ve had enough people saying those pathetic two syllables.”

Unable to control himself, Michael kissed him again, unwilling to let him go, to let what they had (whatever it is) go. He poured everything into that small moment of tangled lips – all the vigor inside him and sense of loneliness and gratitude for those small hours. Surprisingly, so did James. “I’ll meet you again, then. In the future.”

It is impossible to meet again in a city of new strangers, but they held on to that silent promise.

_fin._

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have not the slightest idea where the hand job came from. This is supposed to be a tragic angst fic about these two idiots inside a train where they could fall in love and we could all cry but shit happened and I am terribly sorry for everything. Also, I've ridden trains only twice in my life when I was a kid and neither of those rides are the lines of King's Cross or in Europe, really, for that matter. So basically, I don't know if the shit I had put in this are accurate and I'm totally alright if people would correct me on what I had written. Sorry again.
> 
> The title and epigraph are taken from Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye's "When Love Arrives". They're both wonderful spoken word poets who had written and performed out-of-this-world gorgeous poems and I suggest you listen/watch/read them. Seriously, it will change you.


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